A Little Surprise Called Robert
by yorozuyagaren
Summary: Betsy Callahan knew that Whistler would never love her. But damned if she wasn't going to find out why. Rated for implied sex.
1. Betsy

I know, I'm terrible. Starting new fics when I really should be finishing the old ones. But there is a plan, and I like to think that I'm following it. Suffice to say, that you should probably read some of this fic before I go back to working on Tillie Shakes. Not sure how this fic is going to be taken, seeing that it's basically about an OC, and the actual newsies play a very very minor role.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert 

Chapter 1: Betsy

Betsy Callahan knew that Whistler would never love her. He had made it perfectly clear the first time he treated her to supper at Tibby's.

"Now," he had said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm gonna be perfectly up front about this. I don't love you. I will not marry you. I want to be bedpartners, and I'm more than happy to be good friends, but you must understand that I'm not going to love you, and that there will be other women. Likewise, you're more than welcome to have other men. All I ask is your bed and your friendship, nothing more. We'll have no talk of love." Then he paused, and smiled. "If that's alright with you, of course. Otherwise I'll go and find someone else."

Betsy had found herself intrigued by this pronouncement. Indeed, she had no hope of marriage and respectable life. She loved show business and working at Medda's more than any man she'd ever been with, and what man would be willing to marry a showgirl, barely a step above common streetwalkers? With Whistler, she'd have a friend and protector who doubled as a bedpartner and nothing more. This suited Betsy. And since the arrangement suited Betsy, it also suited Whistler, who was highly appreciative of Betsy's long dark hair and the way her scanty costumes clung to her curves.

"You're very strange," Betsy said. "You're the first man I've been with who hasn't made me swear to be faithful."

Whistler grinned at this. "I believe in equality of the sexes. If men can be with whoever, why not women?"

"So you believe that women should vote?"

"Of course. I think it's absurd that they aren't allowed to."

Betsy laughed. "I like you," she said. "You're funny."

"I like you too. You're beautiful."

Betsy was hard-pressed not to fall in love with Whistler.

Lying in bed one night, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked him a question.

"Whistler, why won't you love me?"

"Because I can't."

"Why is that?"

Whistler rolled over to face her, his green clay pendant catching the light from the streetlamp outside. "Because."

"It has something to do with that pendant, doesn it?"

"Yes," Whistler said. "Yes it does." With that, he rolled over so that his back was facing her with its light tracing of old scars, and pretended to go to sleep.

He was gone in the morning. He was always gone in the morning.

He always insisted that it be dark when they were making love. Betsy wondered at it, but didn't complain. The lack of light made everything seem surreal, almost magical, and without her usual vision she found her other senses were heightened.

Whistler had a secret—of that Betsy was certain. The pendant was central to it as was his seeming inability to love, and Betsy suspected that his insistance on making love in the dark had something to do with it too, although she couldn't imagine how.

The first time she'd seen him shirtless—properly seen him, not just felt him—had been one afternoon at the Brooklyn docks. The day was hot, the afternoon edition was sold, and the evening edition wouldn't be out for an hour, so when Betsy arrived at the waterfront, the river was full of shrieking, laughing, half-naked boys, presided over by the famous Spot Conlon. Spot was the first one to take notice of her. He whistled a signal from his perch on a packing crate tower, then sat back to watch as three of the larger newsies scrambled onto the pier and over to Betsy. The rest of the boys stood, sat, or treaded water, waiting for orders.

"This ain' much of a place f'girls," Spot remarked, jumping down from his tower. He strode over to where Betsy was guarded by the three large boys. "Whaddaya doin' here?"

"I'm looking for someone," Betsy replied coolly. "One of your men." She was taller than Spot by a good six inches, and estimated him to be her junior by at least four years.

"Yeh?" Spot said, raising an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"He calls himself Whistler Connolly."

Spot grinned. "Heh, might a' known. He's th'only one a' my guys that's got girls lookin' for him." He stomped on the pier. "Hey Whistler! Yah got a broad up here waitin' for ya!"

Whistler swam out from under the pier. His long red hair was tied back with a piece of string and in the seconds before he turned to face the dock, Betsy noticed the scars on his back. They were faint, a series of pale lines crisscrossing flesh only a few shades darker despite the boy's constant exposure to the elements. Then Whistler turned, grinning, and noticed Betsy.

"Heya Bet!" he said. "Fancy seein' you here!" As he climbed up on the pier, Betsy couldn't help notice that he was wearing his greyish cotton drawers and nothing else, the mysterious green clay pendant hanging against his chest. It was the first time she'd seen the necklace properly, since Whistler always kept it tucked in his shirt. She resolved to ask him about it.

"Why do you wear that necklace?" she asked that night after they'd kissed.

"It was a present."

"From whom?"

"Someone special."

"A woman?"

Whistler thought a moment. "Yeh, y'might say that. A woman."

That was all he'd say on the matter.


	2. Whistler

And now, from Whistler's POV. More mysterious stuff, and the story begins to take shape.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert

Chapter 2: Whistler

He liked Betsy. She was a sensible, assertive, strong young woman whose kindness was overshadowed only by her beauty. Her long dark hair had just the right amount of curl, her blue eyes held intellegence and humour. In many ways, she reminded him of someone else, long ago, despite her almost black hair and blue eyes that were so unlike the dark gold and warm brown he remembered. If things had been different…

He would never have met Betsy.

Or if he had, he would have seduced her in an hour and left her the next day, without so much as a by-your-leave or explanation. After what had happened, he understood the concept of friendship before or instead of love, and the importance of getting things out in the open before they exploded.

After what had happened, he found it much easier to comprehend emotions.

On the other hand, he also understood that what had happened to him so long ago now fell into the "stories and fairytales" category, and should be treated as such and nothing more.

But it still hurt.

Whistler hid behind a folding screen in the chorus girls' dressing room at Irving Hall. He was waiting for Betsy to come offstage so he could take her to a late supper. Finally the door creaked open and Betsy came in, her face pale beneath the layers of greasepaint. She looked more tired than usual, and—more importantly—she looked worried. Whistler frowned as he came out from behind the screen.

"Are you alright, Bet?" he asked. "You don't look so good." Betsy ignored him, sitting down at a mirror and scrubbing her face with a cloth dipped in witch hazel. She silently stripped off her gauzy skirts and drapings, exchanged her rigid performing bodice for a health corset, and slipped into her everyday shirtwaist and blue serge skirt. She was meticulously arranging the ruffles on her shirtwaist in the mirror when Whistler lost patience.

"What's wrong Bet?" he said, grabbing her wrist. "I can't help unless y'tell me what's wrong."

"You should damn well know what's wrong!" Betsy snapped. Betsy never snapped. It wasn't like her at all. Whistler was so surprised that he didn't reply. "It's your damn fault. I'll have to stop working, and I won't be able to afford food, or clothing, or blankets, or rent, or _anything_, and there won't be a thing I'll be able to do, because I'm not getting rid of it, I'm not!"

Whistler found his voice. "Waitwaitwait! Get rid of what?"

"Our baby!"

"Our _what_?"

"Baby. Child. Infant. Offspring," Betsy snapped. "You got me _pregnant_, you—you—you—_ugh_!" She all but ran out the door, slamming it behind her.

Whistler stood, too stunned to speak.

"Well," he said finally. "I certainly wasn't expecting that."


	3. Medda

Sorry about the short chapter. The next one should be longer. Tip: reviews mean happy author, happy author means faster update. (Usually.) Oh woe, for Garen must work for his living, and working all day makes for not very much writing time.

Edit: I feel like an ass. I forgot to put in Annie's married name. Her married name is Annie Schayer, not Annie (blank).

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A Little Surprise Called Robert 

Chapter 3: Medda

They told Medda first, of course. It would have been rude not to, since Medda was a sort of surrogate mother to both of them, and Betsy's boss besides.

"I'm very happy for you both," she said. "I wish you the best of luck, Betsy. Family and married life never appealed to me, but I know that most girls want it. Take good care of her, Mr. Whistler Connolly."

"Uh, Medda—" Whistler began. "We're—"

"—Not getting married right away," Betsy finished, applying the high heel of her boot to Whistler's instep. He grunted in pain. "Whistler wants to wait until he gets a decent job so he can afford a ring." She smiled sweetly at him. "Right, Wiss?"

Whistler looked positively terrified, but he gave a slow single nod.

Medda wasn't fooled for a second. "I should have known that Whistler wasn't the marrying type. Well, take good care of her anyway, Wiss."

"Why didn't you agree with me?" Betsy asked later.

"There's many things I do that fall outside the realm a' respectable, but one thing I don't do is lie."

Betsy looked at him, doubting. "You never lie?"

Whistler looked right back at her, his green eyes steady. "Never."

"But all your stories—"

"Who's to say they're not true?"

"You tell stories with fairies in them. Magic. There's no such thing."

"How do you know?"

"Because there isn't."

Whistler smiled sadly. "How little you know," he said.

The next to be told was Spot, since Whistler had decided to move back to Manhattan in order to look after Betsy.

"Where're y'staying'?" he asked. "Y'said y'rself that y'got kicked outta y'r room. That's why y'came t' Brooklyn, ennit?"

"We'll be stayin' with a friend a' mine, formerly known as Annie Moore, more recently known as Annie Schayer," Whistler said with a grin. "Y'might a' heard a' her."

"Wasn't she the broad who was the first person to come in through Ellis Island?" Spot asked, incredulous. Whistler nodded. "I don' even wanna know how you know her. It's prob'ly some crazy story about b'fore she got married."

Betsy giggled. "My my, Wiss. You sure do get around, don't you? With all the girls you've been with, it's amazing that this hasn't happened to you sooner."

"Well," Whistler said. "I told you that I can't have kids, and I thought it was the truth at the time. Happy surprise, eh?"

Later, Whistler confided to Betsy that it was not only a surprise, but a very suspicious and worrisome one.

"It's never happened," he said, worried. "At least, I don't think it has."

Betsy patted his hand. "Don't worry about it, Wiss. I'm fine, you're fine, and the baby'll be fine."

"I hope so, Bet. I hope so."


	4. Annie

Bad readers. Shame on you, only leaving one review. Thank you to Matisse, for reviewing the last chapter.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert 

Chapter 4: Annie

Annie had known Will Connolly for quite some time. When she had first landed in Manhattan in January of '92 with her two younger brothers, the redheaded newsboy had helped the three of them find 32 Monroe Street. Annie had had a soft spot for the boy ever since, even though eight years had passed.

Eight years later, Annie had filled out her corset, gotten married, and had four children. Will Connolly, oddly enough, hadn't changed a bit.

Wait, that wasn't true. Now he was calling himself Whistler Connolly, rather than Will. And his hair was longer.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Will," she'd cried when he had first turned up after having been mysteriously absent for nearly five years. "How is it ye look exactly the same as when ye left?"

"It's not Will anymore, Annie," he'd replied, completely ignoring the question. "The name's Whistler now. I'm incognito." He then stepped aside to reveal a girl of nineteen, with dark hair and a friendly, flushed face. "This is Elizabeth Callahan, or Betsy if y'please. She and I are looking for some sort a' lodgin'. Bet, this is my good friend, Mrs. Annie Schayer." Betsy nodded her head politely.

"Here, girl," Annie said cheerfully. "What do you think you're doing with this hooligan?"

"I'm having a baby with him," Betsy said. "I'm out of a job, since I can't dance for the time being, but I'm happy to help with housework and such."

"Well, Will Connolly. I'd never have thought you'd go serious with a girl. Ye'd think it was forbidden by the Bible."

Whistler grinned. "When it's actually the other way around. Aren't y'gonna let us in? I'd love to see how many little 'uns you got."

Annie's expression changed to one of pride as she took the couple around the tiny apartment, introducing her husband, Jakob Schayer, followed by five-year old James, the twins Peter and Thomas, and little Mary, the current cradle occupant.

"Y'seem to have done pretty well for yourself," Will said.

Annie nodded, almost sadly. "These four aren't all of them," she said quietly. "There was another, Amelia. She caught cold two winters ago, and it turned to pneumonia."

"I'm very sorry," said Betsy. "I couldn't imagine it."

"Life goes on," Annie said with a shrug. "She's under a nice tree over in Queens. I can only hope that she's happy.

"But that's got us all mopey. Let's have some tea and talk about lodging."

So Whistler and Betsy were incorporated into the Schayer family. Betsy grew rounder and rosier with each passing week, until she was so big around that she could barely do more than waddle about the three rooms that made up the apartment. Whistler took to spending more time out of the house, looking for a decent job.

And Annie? She cooked and cleaned, and changed diapers, and thought up new ways to prepare the fish that Jakob brought home from his shop.


	5. Robert

I'm going to Italy for ten days or so, so here's something to keep you all busy while I'm gone.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert

Chapter 5: Robert

"Is she alright? Is the baby alright?"

"Will, go out to the pump for water and quit hoverin'."

"Mumma, why's Aunt Betsy's face all red?"

"Go fetch the doctor, Jamie lad."

James ran for the doctor, Whistler for the pump, leaving Annie alone with the red-faced, gasping Betsy.

"I'm never—letting him near me—again," Betsy grunted between contractions.

Annie pushed a damp lock of hair out of the girl's face. "Sure you won't, dear," she said soothingly. "Now let's have another turn about the room."

Five hours later, Robert Connolly entered the world amid sweat, blood, and tears. Held by his father, the new arrival gazed up at Whistler through large, moss-coloured eyes.

"Well, isn't he just the spittin' image of his father," Annie said, bundling up the dirty linen. "Right down the green eyes. Strange, though. Usually babies' eyes is blue for the first few weeks."

"Can I hold him?" Betsy asked. Whistler brought him over, and Betsy proceeded to coo over his tiny feet. Then she noticed the child's ears.

"Whistler, why are his ears pointed?"

Whistler looked panicked.

"Probably just a bit squished from when the wee dote came out," Annie said quickly. "Nothing to worry about."

This appeared to convince Betsy, whose face softened as she held Robert to her breast and let him nurse.

Annie glanced over at Whistler, who had a strange expression on his face.

"You alright, Will?" she asked.

"Just a bit squished, is all," Whistler repeated. "We can only hope."


	6. Jeremy

That's right, folks. Garen is back, with a vengeance. Bottle Cap, you still owe me that copy of Blood Drips, and don't think I've forgotten. Morning Glory, there's a story about an American scholar asking an old Irish woman if she believes in fairies. She said "I do not, but they're there." Think about that, and be careful at twilight and dawn. Ginny, this is for you, in the hopes that you'll start writing again, as I have. (Of course, we'll have to wait and see how long the resurrection lasts.)

To everyone else, I'm still alive (sort of) and will continue to be so until I die. Which won't be anytime soon, I don't think. Enjoy the insanity and the mystery, and trust that I know what I'm doing and have everything under control. Which I do. Really.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert

Chapter 6: Jeremy

Betsy fell asleep early that evening, exhausted from childbirth. Whistler gently pulled the sleeping Robert away from his mother's breast and examined him. There was no doubt about his parentage. The child even had a light reddish fuzz sprouting from his scalp. And then there was the small matter of the pointed ears...

Whistler held Robert in the crook of his arm and passed his left hand over the baby's head. The pointed eartips blurred and became round, like those of any other child.

"It's just an illusion, so it won't hold up long," Whistler whispered to his son. "I'll hafta get ya to Jeremy so we can figure somethin' more permanent until you're old enough to learn illusions yourself. If you even can, that is."

He replaced the baby in Betsy's arms and frowned. Robert shouldn't have happened, shouldn't have been concieved, shouldn't have been born. There was nothing Whistler could do about it now of course, other than helping Betsy take care of him, but he sure as hell wanted to find out how a young man who thought he couldn't have kids managed to father a son.

"If anybody has a clue, Jeremy does," Whistler muttered. He grabbed his cap off its hook by the door and headed downtown.

Jeremy was easy to find. The old man always seemed to sense when Whistler was looking for him, and arrange to be nearby. In this case "nearby" meant crouched behind a stack of sod in the still-chaotic Seward Park. Clad in his usual nightshirt, cap, and slippers, Jeremy seemed utterly intent on a series of symbols scratched in the dirt, muttering to himself as he poked at the furrows and jabbed his spectacles further up his nose.

Whistler took a deep breath before tentatively whispering, "Jeremy?"

The old man did not respond.

The boy tried again, a bit louder. "Jeremy!"

This time, Jeremy spun to his feet with alarming agility and frowned at the interruptor.

"Rhui. I was expecting you'd show up, but you really should have waited until I was done."

Whistler pulled an "oh really?" face. "As if you'd have been done with whatever you were doing before next week, anyway," he said.

Jeremy's frown deepened. "Perhaps, and perhaps not. With sort of thing, one rarely knows. Trouble ahead. Be careful. Things are most definitely not what they seem."

"You really think I wouldn't know that by now? My girlfriend just had a baby, and it's obviously mine."

"So it's started already, has it?" Jeremy muttered. It was a loud mutter, but a mutter nonetheless. "Apples, I'd forgotten how fast humans breed. Let me guess, the child is fey."

"Green eyes on the day he was born, and pointed ears to boot. He hasn't started making things fly around the room, but I daresay it's only a matter of time."

"You flatter yourself. No child of yours is going to have that sort of power, not unless you bed a mage."

"Oh, so I should stick to my lockpicking and not try to figure out what the hell's going on? You know bloody well what I meant."

Jeremy wisely chose not to comment, and instead changed the subject. "The point of the matter is that you need to watch the child very carefully. It shouldn't exist, and as far as I can see, the only reason for it _to_ exist is to get you unbalanced. And I must say, it's clearly working."

"So whaddaya propose t'do? I won't let you kill 'im."

"Impossible creature you are, I suppose you'd rather die than see the thing hurt. It is a weakness, and at the moment, you can't afford to have any."

"An' why the hell not? They all think I'm human. A little crazy, maybe, but the only one who would suspect is Annie, and she's Irish born and bred."

"Ah Rhui," Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. "You never suspect that there might be more going on than what you are able to see and sense."

Whistler's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at."

"The black dog is in New York, and he has his orders."

"Black dog?"

"Think, Rhui, think. I'm in danger, you're in danger, we're all in danger from your former mistress. Keep your wits about you, and remember that the past can always be resurrected."

Whistler swore. "Don' tell me—"

"You know I wouldn't."

"—Dhui is here."

Jeremy smiled with the patronizing sort of benevolence one would expect from a cruel teacher who has just told one of his students to fetch the paddle.

"He's here, and he's not happy. Like I said, the past can always be resurrected."


	7. Rhui

Attention: In no way does John Gardner reflect my personal opinions on the subject of minorities. I consider him to be rude, narrow-minded, and a right bastard. He is nonetheless fairly accurate for the setting, and I stand by my characterization of him. This does not, however, mean that I agree with him.

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A Little Surprise Called Robert

Chapter 7: Rhui

_Dhui is here._

The words rang in Whistler's mind as he said them, and continued to tumble around as he attempted to be sociable with Jeremy, who quickly lost patience.

"I'm busy, and you have a newborn halfling to look after," he said rather pointedly. "Plus, I'm sure the thing's mother will want some explanations, and you might want to fortify yourself before-hand. She's not a Jack, is she?"

"Thank everything she's not. If she was, I'd probably hang myself right now to save trouble. Oh my god." Whistler tugged at his bangs in agitation. "Dhui though. What's he want?"

"That's for him to know, and us to find out. I'll contact you if anything else turns up." Jeremy crouched and went back to his dirt scratchings. Fairly sure that the interview was over, Whistler ran a nervous hand through his hair and high-tailed it to a rather seedy pub near the Schayers' flat.

The owner of the pub was an aging veteran of the war against slavery forty years earlier. Grizzled and bitter, with a bushy grey beard and a wooden leg to replace the one he'd lost during the war, John Gardner harboured an intense dislike for blacks, mulattos, foreigners, and anyone with so much as a hint of Southern mannerism. Whistler disliked him for a variety of reasons, but the fact remained that Gardner's hole-in-the-wall establishment was one of the only places he could get alcohol without having to go to the bother of stealing it.

"Y'damn kid, y'll get me shut down," the man grumbled as Whistler came in, but he grabbed a pint tankard off the rack nonetheless. "What'll it be?"

"You can put the pint away. I need something a bit stronger than beer. What's cheapest?"

Gardner cackled knowingly as he set the tankard down and pulled out a tumbler. "Girl naggin' you to tie the knot, now she's given you a kid? Damn woman, prolly ain't even yours if it makes you feel better." He produced a bottle with a handscribbled label reading "Munshine" and poured a decent amount, then slid the tumbler over to Whistler.

"Oh, it's mine alright," Whistler muttered. "There's no question a' that. S'not all what's worrying me though." He sniffed at the contents of the tumbler, wrinkled his nose, then took a sip and shuddered. "Gardner, have you come across a fellow four, five inches taller than me, kinda darkish, with black hair? Looks about my age, maybe a bit older."

"Dark like nigger-dark? I don't serve no niggers, if that's what you mean."

Whistler resisted the urge to inform Gardner that not only were blacks human, but that the government had acknowledged them as such. The knowledge that he'd have to find a different pub kept his tongue in check.

"Nah, he's not black. More like Greek or something."

"He's a Greek?"

"No, he's not, but he looks like one."

Gardner looked thoughtful for a moment, an expression which didn't suit him in the slightest. "There was a fella come by a couple weeks back. Kinda darkish, like you said. Hard to tell his age though, he had this weird burn on his face, looked like someone had taken a poker to it. It was old though, y'know? Not recent. Broken nose, too. I gave him a job sweeping and helping out."

"Did he give a name?"

"Dunny, Duffy, Dewey, somethin' like that. He answers to Dog though, so that's what I call him."

Whistler nearly dropped the tumbler. He fought to keep his hand steady as he gulped some more of the paint-peeling contents.

"Does he talk much?"

"Not really. Though now that I think about it, he did ask about some fella named Rukey when he first showed up. Said he was short with red hair, and a cheating traitorous bastard."

"Rukey?"

"Sounded like Rukey at any rate. Rooney, maybe? It's been a while."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Told him there's a kid named Connolly comes around sometimes who's got red hair, but that I didn't know anybody named Rukey."

"Where is he now?"

"He's off runnin' some errands, said he'd be back soon. He better be, the bum. I got some kegs to bring up from the cellar and I don't do stairs too well what with the leg."

Whistler nodded, knocked back the remains of his drink, and set the tumbler down carefully. "Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

Gardner fixed the boy with a grim glare. "You owe me half an hour to bring up the kegs from the cellar, and you owe me an explanation."

"Oh come on, Gardner. I gotta get home, Betsy'll be worried. How's five cents sound?"

"There's five kegs. You bring up two and tell me how you know Dog, and we'll call it even."

"How big are they?"

"About thirty pounds each, give or take."

"Fine."


End file.
